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Creative Writing: The Month Of Fire

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There I stood, in the center of the city. The streets were strewn with burning mounds of trash and corpses and an opressive shroud of smoke, advancing from every direction, obscured the upper levels of the starscrapers lining the road. The state of civilization had devolved from disorder to chaos; the privileged few who could afford communicators had given up trying to contact anyone and instead hid inside or ran aimlessly; the lower castes looted and rioted, or celebrated with the radicals. Smiling, exsquisitely-groomed revolutionary militants in white and red fatiques, their gleaming black boots splashing through puddles of blood as they walked, led throngs of partisans bearing torches, arms, and red banners on hysterically jubilant victory marches through the streets; terrified onlookers trembling behind…show more content…
Newgate, with portions of it still ablaze from the Month of Fire, was alive with the roar of a mad band, playing increasingly elaborate improvisations of the populist hymn that would become the new anthem after the Revolution. Before me, a makeshift stage was assmebled, atop which the ousted elite of the old republics roasted alive on spits, offered as a meal to anyone starving or angry enough to
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